


rose tattoo

by harscrow



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, Sailors au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 04:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11074362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harscrow/pseuds/harscrow
Summary: There’s a rose forever blooming right above his heart. Amid the twine of petals, the four letters that mean to Roman the most. The name he’ll whisper at night, every night, until his last one.





	rose tattoo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wctomyhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wctomyhead/gifts).



> this is for my amazing tag team partner who deserves the world ~

The sum of his life is a rich map Roman can retrace whenever he meets his naked frame in the mirror. The ink has been slapped by the sun and salt and wind, so many times, too many times to be counted. Some of the early chapters of that story have faded, figures a little smudged at the edges; others are still bright as if they were jealously guarded in the tin box of time.

Born and raised in a beach town, Roman has always believed his fate to be bound to the ocean. Azure were his childhood dreams in the dead of night, white as soft sand when they dissolved in the morning. They left him unsated as he woke up, too little a kid to be sailing on his own.

Down at the dock, his father’s trawler bobbed in the water, waiting for him in the summer heat. As hard as work was, Roman was willing to help, books and pencils easily discarded. Sunsets made fish scales sparkle like ancient treasures between his hands, and if he squeezed his eyes just a little he would see coins and gems and pearls instead. Oh, wooden chests spilling over with gold; oh, shiny swinging cutlasses and white sails swelling with warm winds! All of this ruled his young mind, for Roman was a pirate with no hook nor peg leg nor long beard. Just that same mystic wilderness at heart, the longing for more, for glory and outlaw roaming. That need to stray far from the stillness of the mainland. But every night he stepped back into his house, there were no cannons roaring boarding songs from afar. Just the clink of cutlery and pots, and that nice smell of the food his mother put on the table. And laughter, so much of it that it would make him consider delaying his piracy vocation for just a little while.  
  


At 18 a fishing hook appeared on his inner wrist,  
in a Polynesian fashion his islander blood took pride in.

He never made it as a pirate, mainly because the perils of such a career would have hurt his beautiful mom too much. Absolutely no other reason. But as he grew up he soon realized he could drink like one, especially with his cousins around to cheer him on at the pub.

“Bet I can drink you under the table, buddy. What you say?”

From the dim dull lights of a Thursday night, cobalt powder and dynamite came out to stare directly at him. The man a supernova on legs, but Roman didn’t know. Didn’t read the warning signs.

“Loser picks up the bill?” He snorted instead.

“Yeah, man!” The stranger nodded, the gravel in his voice blending with Roman’s itch for bravado. “Whiskey, rum or tequila?”

“You kidding? All three of them.” He smiled, didn’t hesitate.

“You know what? I like you. Makes me almost feel sorry that you’re about to lose your money.” The stranger said, chest shaking with laughter under his tight shirt. He reached out for the first shot to chug, unashamedly stealing it from under Roman’s unaware nose.  
  


Shark teeth and spearheads make up the most of his sleeve tattoo,  
because he never backed down from a challenge.  
But those patterns coexist with stripes of fala mat,  
for his soul is good, and contemplative, and grateful above all.  
  


Shining behind those electric eyes brimming with life, an untamed call played on strings of steel. Meeting _him_ had been like crashing headlong into a tall wave, its jaws closing above Roman’s reckless self.

And he couldn’t discern back then which menace was more dangerous, if the coils of a maelstrom or the tide of Dean’s eyes. Until it was too late. Dragged underwater, his lungs filled up with blue, and there was so much of it and it pressed so hard against his ribcage he thought he would die. It was blue, that chokehold he couldn’t break from. So blue and blue and thorough. But then he understood, coming within an inch of losing his life on the rocks below, throat crushed by the water and limbs helpless against the flow. Just _then_ he learned that you don’t mess with the divine unless you’re ready to let it win. He pressed his lips against Dean’s mouth and he was breathing again. A gasp for air all it took for him to be eternally shipwrecked on the golden shores of Dean’s soul.

“We should buy a sailboat.” Roman said one day, fresh sheets crumpling under his fingers.

Dean chuckled, kissed the inner of his thigh. “Where are you taking me, captain?”

“Everywhere.”  
  


Stylized waves too, representing the stronger forces that kept pulling at his heart,  
take part in the dense tangle running up his whole arm.

‘Tamaeva’ was pushed by the wind, forward – forward always, unless the rudder said otherwise – white foam fizzing against their boat’s pristine hull. As the sea was boiling calmly under Roman’s feet, Dean’s heated waist burned under his hands. “Fuck me”, he would say, and he was pure. It was a pure need coming from a pure mouth. And he was bending already, holding onto the grab rail. Roman would kiss his tanned shoulders and watch Dean arch as that simple touch made his golden skin shiver despite the hotness surrounding them.

Dean would suck on Roman’s fingers and take him with pride. Covered in glistening sweat they would make love, as that was always the case. Some of their encounters rough and rushed on the surface, but never dirty underneath, never wrong. They had built too deep a bond for their union to ever be any less than sacred.

As night fell they sat at stern, eyes captured by the sparkling ripples the moon painted in white, and their tranquil breaths would blend into the dark. Fingers entwined on Dean’s lap, Roman could smell dried salt between his curls and he felt at peace. At peace with the siren who had stolen his sailor heart and now rested gently against his chest. At peace with the sky and the stars above too, silent witnesses to a love unrolling wider than the celestial bodies themselves.

“Hey, ‘s getting late. Gotta tie me to the mast, baby.” Roman would remind him when it was _almost_ time for his lookout duty. Because he knew what Dean would have replied to that.

“Not yet, Ro. Please. Wanna stay like this a little longer.”

And Roman chuckled, and they stayed like that a little longer. Glued to each other, until he had to take his place and stand watch.

“I love you so fucking much.” Dean would say, tying the knots. Not once he did so without reminding Roman how much it meant for him that he’d never asked him to have his body restrained instead. That was Dean thanking him for understanding, for never even suggesting what would have been for him a nightmare made of ropes. To function, Dean needed to move. To get enough air in his lungs, he needed to feel free.

“Love you too. Sleep tight.”

Dean would kiss Roman’s smile in the moonlight before going below deck, and Roman would inhale sharply at his absence, with probably a tinge of melancholy but not even the slightest one of regret.  
  


Two triangular sails decorate the side of his neck,  
almost touching the back of his ear.

He’s always used to come back to the ocean when he was hurting, for the calming tune of the sea lapping at the pale sand was the only sound instinctual enough to fill up the sudden emptiness of his mind or stifle its noise. But this, today, is a bitter farewell to his ancestral cradle instead.

Tamaeva has been sold and his will to sail extinguished, Roman left with nothing but his feet to stand on. The motion he felt in his soul since the moment he was born a fading echo he can no longer hum to. To sing, you must have a voice, and Roman is suddenly a mute.

No more struggling to keep his balance despite the boat swaying along its course. No more wood creaking under his bare feet, nor sails flapping joyfully in the wind. No more waving at free dolphins down in the Gulf of Mexico, nor complimenting their graceful leaps. No more excitement of making port in unexplored towns, nor that weird wobbly feeling in his legs being on solid ground again. And mostly, no more kisses pressed on the side of his neck at the beginning of each new adventure. No more, no more, no more.

As he wades through the water, playful soft waves greet his bones, curling and dancing around his hips. They know about his pain and pretend they don’t, these goddamn liars, the mocking crests laughing in his face, splashing the grey of his beard. A sense of betrayal swallows him whole, and his bloodstream feels no longer in sync with the ocean’s heartbeat.

“You have no right to be happy.” He hisses, tears running down his wrinkled face. Roman’s punch pierces through the water, and he feels every bit of the disenchanted old man he is.

Peeking from behind a faltering, thin veil of clouds, the sun shines even on the anniversary of his husband’s dying day.  
  


There’s a rose forever blooming right above his heart.  
Amid the twine of petals, the four letters that mean to Roman the most.  
The name he’ll whisper at night, every night, until his last one.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, basically I was listening to 'Rose Tattoo' by Dropkick Murphys and this happened!


End file.
